


Kneel Down, and Ask of Thee

by lilbatfacedgirl



Series: Moments from Beckmann [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Beckmann Correctional, It's a prison story so..., M/M, Post Episode 9x06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 00:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17396294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbatfacedgirl/pseuds/lilbatfacedgirl
Summary: Two months after reuniting in prison, Ian and Mickey stumble on an important conversation.





	Kneel Down, and Ask of Thee

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to Stone Walls

No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:

We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:

When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,

And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,

And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh

At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues

Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,

Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out;

And take upon's the mystery of things,

As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out,

In a walled prison, packs and sects of great ones,

That ebb and flow by the moon.

_King Lear,_ Act V, sc. iii  


 

It had taken nearly two weeks, but the air in the little concrete cell was finally starting to smell stale.  

Ian Gallagher, inmate of the of Illinois Department of Corrections, lay on his back, staring straight up.  Above him, he could just see the outline of the light fixture in it’s metal cage. At nearly two in the morning, the ceiling was mostly a shadow, but a cellblock is never really completely dark and it only took some time and some concentrated staring for the shape to emerge from the blackness.  His breath drifted in and out of his chest in even bursts. Slowly, slowly, he felt each muscle in his body relax and settle against the thin mattress. 

Except for his left arm.  That was trapped under Mickey’s side and Ian had no intention of waking the sleeping brunette to steal his stiffening limb back. 

Instead, Ian shifted his gaze and considered the man beside him.  The light was weak but his eyes had adjusted enough to make out the way the raven hair was drying in sweaty spikes against the back of his bed mate’s neck.  The brunette’s whole body was tacky to the touch, as Ian’s own was, but they’d have plenty of time in the morning to scrub themselves down, using the water from the tiny sink in their cell.  Then they could resume their busy daily schedule of reading and napping and fucking and staring mindlessly at the wall, battling their own thoughts and the demons of their past. They’d eat their meals when the guards and kitchen staff brought them, then shove the plates and trays near their door and sit with their backs against the bottom bunk and their hands on their heads while the same staff came back in and collected them.  And they’d do it the day after that and the day after that, until this shit finally let up.

This wasn’t Ian’s first lockdown.  He’d experienced two within a short time during his last stint, both stemming from rival gang bullshit.  Honestly, he didn’t really remember them. He’d still been unstable as hell and he’d spent most of the time preaching to his cellmates in the six bed mini-dorm he’d been occupying and talking to an entity who hadn’t really been there.  And hell, they’d been over in three days. 

This shit, though.

It had been more than two weeks since this shit had first blown up.  Ian had finished his shift in the medical records cubicle about a half hour before.  It was okay work, he guessed. The official word was that an inmate with a documented mental illness couldn’t work closely with  prisoners who were too ill or injured to defend themselves against possible attacks, but Ian could read between the lines. No one wanted to give a nationally recognized nutjob potential access to drugs, and that meant that, despite his actual medical training, he couldn’t work in the infirmary itself.  But he knew medical terminology and could find his way around an intake form and so he found himself assisting the triage nurses with paperwork. It was good for him, he knew, organized and soothing. He was also pretty grateful to have something to do that held real value. Sure, the nurses always eyed him a little suspiciously and everything he did was subject to random review to make sure the records were accurate, but every day he could come and complete a job that felt reasonably normal and productive.

He’d bumped into Mickey, as he did most days, when they were both corralled into the little holding pen that funnelled all the inmates from administration and the medical wing back into the main prison blocks.  Mickey worked as an assistant to one of the deputy wardens, and they were both pretty sure that the job was meant to let any interested parties know that the brass had a close eye on him. It wasn’t a perfect solution, and Ian knew it had more to do with avoiding bad press than any genuine concern for Mickey’s safety, but he was grateful nonetheless.   He and Mickey both did work that allowed them to breathe a little easier for a few hours each day, surrounded by regular civilians who were unlikely to shiv them while they typed. In prison, you learned to look for the shine or the shit would suck you down real fast. 

The flipside, of course, was the holding pen and the twice daily strip searches they had to endure.  Nothing was allowed to come into the administrative wing and sure as shit, nothing was allowed to come out.  Ian hated it but what could he do? He understood. He’d already seen what some of the assholes in here could do to someone with a ballpoint pen.  The staff wasn’t taking that risk. 

And so they’d found themselves stripped down to their underwear and holding their awful yellow jumpsuits and prison issues slippers while they waited their turn to head into one of the stalls to get probed and poked by a waiting guard.  It was a slow process and Ian’s mind had been drifting as he waited, thinking of all the shit he wanted to do to Mickey that night. They’d been in the process of rediscovering the joys of fucking on a tabletop, courtesy of the little steel desk affixed to their cell wall.  And before that, maybe they’d be able to finish the game of hearts they had going with some of the other guys in the block. But that shit hadn’t had a chance to materialize. Just before Ian had been called forward, the alarms had started to blare.

“Lockdown!  Lockdown!” a guard’s voice had roared over the intercom. “All inmates to your cells.  Lockdown! Lockdown!”

He’d been husted through the stalls without pause, he and the rest of the administrations grunts, still only half-dressed.  But Mickey had gotten the worst of it, bare-assed and halfway through his search when the alarm bells had started to ring. There had been no time to get dressed.  Hell, the guards had probably thought they were being generous just letting him grab the rest of his clothes. But Ian had found his way to the brunette’s side, taking the rest of Mickey’s shit so the other man could wrap his jumpsuit around his waist and avoid flashing his junk to all of A Block East.  

And then their cell door had slammed shut behind them.  And they’d been stuck. Alone.

Together.

And most of it had been heaven.  A shitty version of heaven maybe, but heaven nonetheless.  

The first day had been tense, everyone standing at the windows in their cell doors, staring out and searching for clues.  The kitchen staff, mandatory workers who were let out of their cells for meal prep, showed up with a rolling food cart and two armed guards.  No one really slept those first two nights, waiting on edge for some sound or quick glimpse, anything that would provide some sense of what was going on.  But there was nothing to see, nothing to hear. Whatever had happened, it was obviously going down in some other block, probably on the West side. 

And so they’d relaxed.  They stripped down to their boxers and laid around.  They’d fucked, hard and fast in the day and then long and slow at night.  As the days went on, they’d even tugged their sad little mattresses onto the floor so they could stretch out beside each other.  Their work was labeled essential but not mandatory, which meant that every three days, they’d be pulled for a few hours to report for duty.  Then a quick shower and back to their little corner of the universe, unmolested for the next seventy-two hours. As the lockdown dragged into its second week, they’d stopped even bothering to put the mattresses back on the bed when the food cart showed up.  Nobody cared. The guards looked tired and Ian imagined that for most of the inmates, stuck in a tiny room with a stranger, this whole thing had been hell. But he’d loved it. They’d slept and fucked and wrestled around and fucked and eaten their shitty food and fucked and read to each other and fucked.  And they’d talked. And that’s where the shit had started.

Ian exhaled, long and low, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand.  Shit might be a harsh word. It wasn’t like they’d had a fight or anything.  But he thought that might be what was fucking him up the most. There had been no pushback from Mickey, no aggressive quipping or thrown punches.  There had just been shrugged shoulders and a quiet acceptance that was so out of character, Ian had been left nearly speechless himself. 

And devastated.  Because one look at Mickey had been all the proof Ian needed that the brunette really believed all the shit that was in his head.

They’d been talking.  Just sprawled on the floor, waiting for the lights to go out for the night, shooting the shit and reminiscing about some of the crazy stuff they’d gotten into in their wayward youth, especially the weird places they’d used to get it on.  And of course, that had led to talk of the ballfield and the wild shit they’d done to each other in that dugout. 

Ian let his gaze drift away from the brunette and back to the ceiling.  He was such a fucking idiot. Or maybe he was just blind. Or maybe the problem was that he always took Micky’s love for granted, even if it was just in his subconscious.  And from the moment that he’d turned around to find the brunette standing in the cell door, he’d never really taken the time to find out what was going on in the other man’s head.  He’d just assumed they were on the same page, his page. So he’d brought up their ill-fated date at Sizzler.

“We’re still gonna do it,” he’d said, turning to meet Mickey’s warm gaze.

“Do what?”

“Go on that date.  Once we’re out of here, we’re gonna finally make that shit happen.”

Ian had seen the change immediately as the light in the blue eyes had slipped away.  For one moment, there had been a flash of hot rage and deep pain in Mickey’s gaze but it was gone in a second, replaced by something flat and considering.  Ian had felt his own stomach turn as Mickey rolled over and stared up.

“What?” he’d demanded, sitting up and leaning close, “The fuck is wrong?”

Mickey hadn’t answered right away.  His eyes had stayed fixed on the same ceiling Ian was staring at now, but there had been a distinct shimmer of tears gathering in the corners as he drew in a deep breath.  Without any warning, he’d suddenly surged to his feet.

“No, Ian,” he’d ordered, pedaling backwards with an outstretched hand when the redhead had moved to stand, “Just fucking…fuck!” Turning, he’d run angry fingers back and forth through his hair until the brunette locks had stood up in tufts.  Ian had frozen, staring up at him as he stalked to the door and rested his balled fists against the metal, staring out the little window. He’d wanted to push, to demand some kind of answer, but he’d bit back the words. No, no, fucking  _ no _ , he couldn’t push.  That had always been the problem.  He’d always been fucking pushing. Or running away.  

“Mick,” he’d finally tried hesitantly, “Shit, I’m fucking sorry.  I know there’s a bunch of shit we haven’t even talked about…”

“Ian, stop.”

The words had been asking him to be silent but it was the voice itself that had actually rendered him mute.  It had been quiet and flat and...fucking resigned, that’s what it had been. And to underscore that point, Mickey’s fists had loosened and the stiff lines of his back had fallen and sagged.  Turning around, the brunette had leaned back against the door, staring down at nothing. Ian had felt a strange cold sweat break out across his skin. It had been wrong, so fucking wrong. Mickey had always done angry and cold and once Ian had pushed past his boundaries, Mickey had done hot, passionate, and even scared.  But Mickey didn’t do resigned. In fact, Ian could only think of three times when the brunette had even come close, and they were three of the shittiest memories he had; the intake center at the psych ward when he’d committed himself, the front steps of his house when he’d told Mickey it was over...and the fucking border.  

When Mickey had finally spoken, his voice had been just as flat, just as resigned.  Just as wrong.

“Ian, you’re talking about Sizzler...shit.  Two years and you’re out of here.”

“Yeah,” he’d answered as his whole body started to tense.

“I’m not.”

The response had been so simple, but the weight of those two words, and their implications had suddenly landed on him like a ton of bricks.  A deep sense of self-loathing had flooded him. He knew that. Of course he knew that. Mickey had managed to wrangle a seriously reduced sentence out of his deal with the Feds, but he was still looking at three and half years.  He’d be in for at least eighteen months after Ian’s release. Ian knew that, he’d known it since the first day, but suddenly, he understood.

“You don’t think I’ll wait for you.”

Mickey had only sighed, “Ian…” he’d begun, but the redhead was already finding his feet.

“No, no, fuck.  You don’t think it.  You  _ know  _ it,” he’d practically spit, wanting the bitter words out of his mouth, “You absolutely believe that I won’t wait for you.”  

Ian had fixed his eyes on the brunette’s downturned face, demanding some kind of answer, but when Mickey had finally looked up, his expression had held nothing but sad agreement.  It had sent a stabbing pain through his heart and for just one second, Ian thought he might have finally understood what Mickey had felt when he’d left him at the border.

“Why?” he’d demanded, “If you fucking believe this, then why are you here?  Why did you use your one good bargaining chip on this shit deal?”

“You fucking know why?”

“Well, I want to hear you say it!”

But this new, resigned Mickey apparently couldn’t be goaded.  He’d let his gaze drift down to the ground again. And it hadn’t mattered much anyway because at that moment, the lights had finally gone out.

Ian had stood in the dark, blood pounding in his ears as he tried to let his eyes adjust.  His jaw had been moving, flexing involuntarily as he struggled with words, but finally,  _ finally,  _ they’d come.  

“You love me.  You’re here because you love me.  Because you want to keep me safe. You’re here even though you don’t believe that I love you.”

“Ian…”

“No!  No, fuck that!  I do fucking love you.  I know...I know how much I’ve fucked up but I do fucking love you.  And this time I’m gonna fucking…”

“Ian!”

There’d been so little bite in that voice.  It had shut him down faster than a whole litany of cursing could ever have managed.

“Maybe you will,” the brunette had said calmly, “but I ain’t counting on that shit.  I ain’t counting on anything anymore. I’m not...I don’t know. I’m not thinking about the long game here.”

“You’re gonna fucking get out of here!”  Ian had spit out but it had drawn no real reaction from Mickey.

“I will.  I’m not planning on staying in here any longer than I have to, but it’s gonna be a long time.  Whatever. We’ll see what happens. All I meant was that I’m not banking on shit. I’m not looking for a lifetime of fucking happiness.  I’m just taking what I can get.”

“What you can get?”  Ian had repeated, hearing the shakiness in his own voice, “What the fuck does that even mean?”  His words had cracked apart on a high, frantic note, and he’d leaned his back into the hard frame of the bunks behind him.  “Don’t you...don’t you want me to wait for you?”

“Since when do I get what I want?”

Mickey had meant it lightly, at least on the surface.  His tone and the tight quirk of his lips, just visible as Ian’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, had made that obvious.  It hadn’t mattered though. To the redhead, the words had felt like a knife to the heart.

“You can have anything you want.” He’d responded, feeling his bottom lip push out mulishly.  When he’d raised his eyes, they’d held obvious challenge, but that had only caused some resigned amusement to bleed through Mickey’s forbearing.  

“Yeah?” The brunette had asked, pushing away from the door, his eyes dark as he’d taken careful steps across the small cell, shoving his boxers down roughly and letting them drop to the floor as he came forward.  It hadn’t been a particularly elegant move, more functional than seductive, but it had sent a frisson on heat through Ian anyway. He’d drawn in an involuntary breath as the blue eyed man had stopped in front of him and rested the palms of both hands flat against his chest.  Mickey’s gaze had been fixed on the skin has dipped beneath his fingers, seemingly hypnotized by the spot where they touched. He’d stepped closer, his bare body warm and only inches away and Ian had shuddered as he felt those hands planing down over his skin to strip away his own covering.  

“Mickey?”  he’d tried, but the brunette’s hand had suddenly pressed against his lips, shushing him gently.  

“What I want, remember,” he’d whispered, stepping even closer as he wrapped one arm around Ian’s waist and the other around his neck.  Ian had felt raven hair brushing against his shoulder as Mickey let his head loll there, staring up at him with intense concentration. Whatever determination Ian might’ve had to continue the discussion had been crumbling away as his own arms had crept up and returned the embrace.  Mickey hadn’t wanted to talk. He hadn’t wanted to listen while Ian tried to convince him with words he couldn’t yet back up with action. No, he’d wanted warm skin. 

“What I want,” he’d repeated as he slid down Ian’s body to his knees.  Ian had followed him with his eyes, a little incredulous as he’d asked, “This is what you want?”

“Always want this,” the brunette had answered, learning forward so his hot breath teased at Ian’s groin.  

“You didn’t have to come back to prison for this.  You can get cock anywhere.”

“Not this cock,” had been the muttered reply before Mickey swallowed him down.

And Ian had lost his words at that moment.  He’d yet to recover them. He didn’t know how long Mickey had tortured him with his hands and mouth but it was long enough for Ian’s eyes to screw closed and for every muscle in his arms to tense as he grabbed on to the rough metal edge of the top bunk and squeezed the hell out of it.  His thighs had been shaking and his head had been thrown back, emitting full blown cries of pleasure into the darkness of their little cell and still Mickey had continued to play. It had been the sweetest kind of hell but he’d let it go on and on. On any normal day, he’d have pushed. He’d have seized control, pulling the brunette up in his arms while those perfect lips curled into a mischievous smile against his mouth.  

But tonight hadn’t been like that.  No, he had been Mickey’s tonight, through and through, and he had let the brunette work him up to a fever pitch with his lips and tongue.

He’d let Mickey coax him down onto his back and he whipped his head back in forth against the thin mattress as the brunette had slicked his length and worked it inside him.  And fuck, it had been everything he loved, everything he’d wanted in the early years of their relationship, everything that he’d finally learned to ask for and Mickey had finally learned to give.  The brunette had ridden him forever, hard and shallow and then long, slow and deep. Mickey had started upright, his own hands sliding over his skin and cupping his sac, giving Ian a show in the pale light from the hallway.  He’d leaned back, letting his spine arch invitingly as he’d braced his palms on Ian’s thighs and moved up and down his length with sharp and precise thrusts. 

Mickey had to have been half crazed by then, as Ian stared up at him.  His skin had shimmered with sweat, his eyes had been glazed and lust drunk.  And still, he’d continued to give Ian all of his favorite things, leaning down close so that Ian could feel the waves of heat that were pouring off his body from the exertion.  So that Ian could lean up and swallow his cries with a kiss. Prison might suck, but concrete walls and a steel door had one thing on their side. They kept the noise locked inside too, and it was a good thing because by the time Mickey finally tumbled over the edge, his frantic keens had been echoing throughout the little chamber.  

And Ian had loved that shit too.  He’d loved the slick sensation of Mickey’s skin when the brunette’s torso had collapsed limply on top of him, loved the warmth all over him as his lover continued to fight through his own satiation to try to bring him pleasure.  He loved the way Mickey had clung to him tightly as he came, how the brunette had lay placidly on top of him, playing with their intertwined fingers as they both caught their breath and came down from the high. 

He’d loved it all so much that it had taken him long minutes to realize that Mickey had never answered his question.  

And he hadn’t had the courage to ask it again.  Instead, here he was now, an hour later, still letting his mind run wild over the possibilities.  Did Mickey even want him to wait? Did Mickey actually want to even take a chance on him again in the real world?

It was a question that hurt.  

Rolling over, Ian let his gaze rest on Mickey’s back, only inches away.  The brunette was asleep but his body was rigid, ready to spring awake and do battle with whatever threat he might find himself confronting.  Ian had always hated how tense Mickey was when he slept. It was one of the reasons why he’d always wrapped himself so tightly around the smaller man when they shared a bed, as if he could stave off any danger with his physical presence and allow Mickey to get some real rest.  But now he had to admit that the blue eyed man still might consider him to be one of the greatest threats of all. 

With a quick, firm movement, Ian managed to extricate his arm from beneath Mickey’s shoulders.  The brunette squirmed and murmured, clearly on the edge of sleep, and Ian took quick advantage, sliding up behind him and coaxing him onto his back.  Bracing his weight on one arm, the redhead leaned over and cradled Mickey’s cheek in one hand as the blue eyes shot open.

“It’s okay,” he whispered gently, stroking the pale skin as Mickey came awake with a start.  The blue gaze was wild and fearful, but the swirling emotions calmed when the brunette focused on his face.  

“The fuck…,” he muttered groggily as he scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “The fuck you awake for?”

“Can’t sleep,” Ian answered.  He saw Mickey’s brows shoot up inquisitively and immediately countered, “Not because of that.”

“Good, cause I don’t think my ass can take any more right now,” he replied, but the humor in his voice was clearly only surface level and Ian could see the nervous twitch in his eyes.  It made him pause for a moment. Should he just shut the fuck up? Should he just curl around the other man again and pretend to sleep? Mickey didn’t want to talk about this shit. He’d made that pretty damn clear.

But Mickey was up now, rolling over onto his side and wrapping an arm around Ian’s waist.  “Now you want to talk about shit?” he asked, staring up into Ian’s face. The awful resignation was back in his voice again and the wrongness of it was no less grating.  Ian could feel his determination wilting away. 

“No,” he whispered, pressing his brow to Mickey’s, “No, we can just sleep.”

“The fuck we can.  You’re not sleeping.  And I’m not sleeping now,”  His arm loosened around Ian’s waist and cupped the back of his neck.  “You need your sleep, Ian,” he said insistently, “You can’t let this shit fuck up your meds.”  Strong fingertips began to massage the knot of stress at the top of Ian’s spine and he leaned instinctively into the pressure as Mickey continued.

“Don’t give me this shit, okay.  We can...we can talk.”

“And that’s the fucking problem,” he responded, hating the waver in his own voice, “You don’t want to talk about this shit.  You’re doing it for me.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Because...fuck!” Ian’s fingers tightened, wrapping around the back of Mickey’s skull while the other hand slipped up to cup his chin.  “You’re doing all this shit because you love me. Because you want to take care of me. You’ll do all this but you still don’t believe for a second that I’d do the same thing for you.”

“Ian…”

“And I fucking deserve that.  It’s just...fuck!” Ian pressed a quick, desperate kiss to the brunette’s lips, letting his gaze run all over the familiar face as he pulled back.  Mickey was staring hard, his features unsure, but his own hands were still wrapped securely around Ian and the redhead focused on that sensation to sure up his resolve.  

“I love you, okay,” he pleaded, letting his fingers stroke up and down the crown of Mickey’s head, letting the soft black locks slip through his fingers.  When the brunette opened his mouth to speak, Ian leaned in close. “Shhhhh,” he whispered against Mickey’s lips, “Please, please, just listen. I know...I fucked up…”

“Ian, it wasn’t just you...

“Mick, please!  I know what you’re gonna say because this is the kind of shit you always say.  You’ll get all pissed off but as soon as you see me sad, it’s like you just want to cave and do anything to make me happy again.  Mick, I’m not that fucking fragile anymore! I’m not. And you don’t have to protect me all the time. I’m gonna have your back in here.  And I’m gonna fucking have it on the outside, too!”

Ian could feel his throat getting thick.  Mickey’s eyes had squeezed shut but Ian could sense the strength in the other man’s arms as they tightened around him.  Taking a deep breath, he made himself continue. 

“Mick, we’ve never...shit, we’ve never just had a clear shot at this.  Ever. No money. I was such a fucking mess for so long. I’m not now. I’m on my meds and I’m  _ not  _ going off them again.  And even before that, we have always,  _ always  _ had to fucking hide from something.  The army, the cops, you’re fucking dad.  And now we won’t. For the first time ever, we won’t.  We can just fucking live. Get boring jobs and a little shit apartment and just live.”

“We still wouldn’t have any money.”

“Yeah.  So?”

“You’d be happy with a shit apartment?”

“If you’re in it with me.”

“Jesus, you corny fucking…,” Mickey snorted, stealing a hand back to wipe at his eyes.  “Ian, I hate to step in your bullshit here but we’re gonna be convicted felons for the rest of our lives.”

“So?  We’ve dealt with way worse shit than that and you know it.”

“And you’ve always wanted something better than that shit.”

“No.  Nope. I want you.  If all I ever have is you and me just getting by, with a roof over our heads and some food in our fridge, I’m good.”

“No beer?”

“I can live without it,” he paused for a moment, “Need lube though.  Can’t live without that.”

Mickey snorted,  his lips curling up reflexively, but a moment later, he was pulling back, keeping one hand wrapped lightly around Ian’s wrist as he rolled onto his back.  He lay there quietly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and Ian lay beside him, just managing to bite his tongue. He’d said a lot of shit. Mickey had listened.  Now he needed to give the other man a minute to think.

“Do you know how hard this shit will be?”

Mickey’s voice was level and honest and Ian listened closely, taking each word apart.  Did he? And which shit was that? 

“I know that it can be hard to get employed.  I can’t...I don’t know if they’ll ever let me be an EMT again.  I’d have to go through a hearing process and…”

“No, Ian,” Mickey said quietly, his voice still calm, still even.  Turning his head sideways, he locked their eyes again. “I mean this shit.  The shit we’re in right now. Surviving this hell hole without getting our asses raped and murdered.”

Ian felt his stomach turn.  “The east side is different,” he answered hesitantly, hearing the naivete in his own voice, “And you’ve got protection.”

“I’ve got guards watching my ass, yeah, but they can only do so much.  You and me, right now, we’re too famous for anyone to go after but give it a couple more months and people will start to get sloppy about it.  Newer and bigger problems and shit. But we’ll still be famous enough that someone might want to use us to make a name. And don’t forget, I’ve got bangers and cartel assholes all over the place who’d love to tear me apart.”

“But you said the guards…”

“Ian, fuck, I know what I said.  Yeah, they’re supposed to have an eye on me.  A lot of them do. But if someone wants to get to me, they’re gonna find a way.  Shit, my biggest fear is that you’re going to  _ be  _ that way, that they’ll use you to get to me.”

Ian could feel his fingers starting to shake.  He felt lightheaded and stupid, stupid as fuck.  Because here he was, doing it again. Hell, he knew they were in prison, that it was fucking dangerous.  He wasn’t that dumb. Still though, he’d never really allowed himself to think that they might not make it out.  And suddenly that seemed incredibly short sighted.

“Why haven’t you mentioned this before?” he asked quietly, already knowing the answer, “You can’t always try to protect me from shit.”

“Can’t help it if I don’t want this place to touch you,”

“The hell you talking about?  It touches me every day. The problem is that you still think I’m all idealistic and pure and shit.  When the hell was I ever pure?”

Mickey groaned. “Always, man.  Always. You always had plans, shit you wanted to do.  You got messed up with me and it fucked everything up for you.”

Ian didn’t even feel himself moving.  One moment, he was lying next to the sprawling brunette, calmly listening to him speak.  The next, he was leaning over the other man, pinning him down by the wrists and staring fire into his eyes.

“Don’t you ever fucking say that again,” he hissed, feeling a fresh wave of angry tears spring up in the corners of his eyes.  Beneath him, Mickey’s shadowed features appeared shocked, then contrite, but Ian just cut him off when he opened his mouth to speak.

“No!  Just shut the hell up if you’re gonna say more stupid shit like that.  Being with you fucked me up? Right, sure, being with you is why I grew up in the hood with no real parents except Fiona.  Being with you is why I’m bipolar and why I blew up a fucking van.”

“Ian, fuck.  I didn’t mean…”

“Yeah, you didn’t mean it because that’s all bullshit.  But you know what isn’t? How I fucked you up. You had to cross the border alone because of me.  You went to jail after trying to get vengeance for me. You almost got beaten to death on a bar floor because of me.  And oh yeah, you were raped by proxy at gunpoint by your own fucking dad because of me.”

Ian could feel his rage growing stronger and stronger with each incident he listed; rage at himself, at the world, at Terry fucking Milkovich.  But he hadn’t been able to dwell on it. Before the final words were even out of his mouth, Mickey’s own fury erupted. With a frightening burst of strength, the brunette shoved his hands up, effectively lifting Ian and dumping him over and onto his back.  Mickey, quick and agile as ever, was on top of him in a flash, pinning him to the floor this time. His features were taut and murderous and every muscle in his body was rigid as he glared down at Ian trapped below him. 

Ian shifted, bucking his hips up to throw the brunette off balance.  His emotions were running high enough to make him feel sick and the only clear thought he could form was the need to be in control.  With a fierce jerk of his wrists, he managed to wrench free and capture Mickey’s own hands in a painful but smooth transition. Before the brunette could even react, Ian had twisted their arms backwards, tumbling Mickey down flat against his chest as he secured his wrists in an x at the small of his back.  When Mickey flailed and nearly cracked Ian in the jaw with his head, the redhead seized the moment and flipped them back over, resecuring the brunette flat on his back.

For a moment, Ian could only stare down,  pain and despair and pulsing frustration tunneling his vision to practically nothing.  He couldn’t find any words anymore. All he wanted to do was roar into the other man’s face until he surrendered and admitted it was all Ian’s fault.  But that would be a waste of breath. Those words would never pass Mickey’s lips.

His lips.  

Suddenly, Ian knew exactly what to do.  Leaning down, he ducked his head and seized Mickey’s mouth with his own.

For a brief moment, they battled.  Teeth clacked and tongues sparred and lips pressed painfully against each other.  But such was the power of a kiss, he’d learned, especially one between them. It wasn’t long before lips and tongues were questing instead of fighting, gentling against each other as their movements became languid and soft and smooth.  It wasn’t long before Ian felt the raging tension bleed out of him. Releasing the death grip he’d established around Mickey’s wrists, he let his arms drape into a loose circle, cradled around Mickey’s head as the brunette’s own limbs, now free slipped down and wrapped around his waist.  They kissed and kissed, until their wrath had melted into passion, until the passion softened into comforting warmth.

Ian was exhausted.  Peeling his lips away from Mickey’s, he burrowed into his neck and let his head loll on the floor, too heavy to support at the moment.

“I can’t fight about this anymore tonight.  I’m fucking wrecked,” he murmured against Mickey’s ear.  The brunette didn’t argue, but he nodded wearily, then keeled his head sideways to meet Ian’s gaze.  He looked as drained as Ian felt, confused and careworn and just so fucking tired. 

“Don’t say that shit again,” he said, channeling what little aggression he had left into his voice and the glare he leveled at Ian, “Not ever again.”

“You either,” the redhead answered, mustering some of his own heat as he stared back.  The burst of energy deserted them both as fast as it had arisen. Fully capitulating, Ian used his last bit of strength to pull the other man into his arms, exactly where he needed him to be.  

“We need to say some of this shit.  I’ve hurt...ah,  _ shit  _ Mickey!” he cried as the brunette pinched his nipple hard, “Fine, fuck,  _ we’ve  _ hurt the hell out of each other over the years.  You want me to say it like that?”

“Yeah,” came the simple reply.

Ian sighed.  “Alright, so we need to admit to that shit then.  And figure out how to get over it. Can’t keep all this in our heads.”

“Not tonight.”

“Yeah, not tonight.  We said enough but...I’m glad we at least said it.”

Mickey rolled his head over until he could stare up and meet Ian’s eyes, “I’m so fucking tired, man.” he pleaded.  Ian cupped his cheek and nodded. 

“I know.  You’re tired of all this shit.  Which is why we’re not gonna keep doing the same damn thing and expecting different results.  I’m gonna have your back. You’re gonna let me. We’re gonna stop fucking up in the same ways and take better care of each other.  Change the shit we can change and find ways to make it through the rest.” He stroked his thumb against Mickey’s temple, over and over until the brunette finally relaxed, molding himself back against his chest.  

“Can you just promise me one thing, Mick?” he asked quietly, relieved when he felt the man’s head nod against his skin.  “Promise me we’ll work together to get both of us out this shithole, okay? I know you’re saying you want to get out, that you’re not gonna do shit to fuck yourself over in here and I believe you.  So let me help, okay, because I know you’re gonna be helping me, even if I tell you not too. Let it go both ways. We don’t have to talk about the future. Let’s just agree that we’re in this together.  And we do everything we can to both get out as soon as we can.”

“That’s your goal, man?” came the sleepy response against his chest.

“No, that’s your goal.  It’s one of mine. The other is to make sure that by the time I leave, you know I’ll wait be waiting for your ass the day you follow me out that door.”

“Why?

“So I can take your ass to Sizzler.”

Mickey snorted, but the sound lacked the skepticism or derision Ian had expected.  The brunette pulled away to flop onto his back but his hands were immediately reaching out to drag Ian up and over him.  The redhead felt physically exhausted and emotionally wrung out, but such was the pull Mickey Milkovich had on him that his dick was already filling as he slipped between the brunette’s thighs.  

“Again?” he asked quietly, lightly, but Mickey only nodded, his eyes wide and fixed on Ian’s as he pulled their lips together.  

************************************************************************************

Two days later, just after eleven in the morning, the lights finally came on fully in A Block East.  Guards strode across the landings outside the cell doors, glaring warning signs inside as the inmates scrambled into their jumpsuits.  Up on the second floor, Ian and Mickey, already dressed, stood on opposite sides of their window, watching as the Block prepared to end the lockdown.  Beneath the glass, their fingers curled around each other, tight and firm and protected from the view of others. 

“Open ‘em up!” echoed the cry through the intercom.  The warning alarm sounded and the two men drew their hands back as the doors slid open with a metallic crash.  

“I love you,” Ian mouthed as he stepped through the door.

Behind him, he could just hear a quiet but cocky, “Me, too, Firecrotch,” as the brunette slipped past him and headed down the stairs.  

  
  



End file.
